When I Was Evil
by Crunch
Summary: I’m told it was spectacular. I’m told he went down like the true hero he was, in a blaze of glory, etcetera etcetera. I just wish I could've been there.


Ahh, one-shots, how do I love thee. Anyhow, I present to you, for better or worse. . .  
  
When I Was Evil~ by Crunch  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing new.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
And stranger than your sympathy  
  
Take these things, so I don't feel  
  
I'm killing myself from the inside out  
  
And now my head's been filled with doubt  
  
~*~  
  
For about two months, forever and a day ago, I was evil.  
  
Now, don't get the impression that it haunts my every waking moment. It doesn't. I mean, I was no Lex Luther.  
  
But I was, according to the rest of the world, officially subscribed to the side of evil. And let's just say I beefed up my rap sheet quite a bit over those fortnights. I stole the blackbird and left my friends stranded in a soon-to-be-flooded mess. . . I do feel bad about that one. Magneto said they would be fine, that they would make it out far before the dam burst- I'm not sure if I believed him or not. But I wasn't ready to die for them, so I went along.  
  
It wasn't a very brave thing to do, or a very noble thing. . . I guess it was just the human thing to do. Either way, it doesn't matter much. Not anymore.  
  
Other then that, I did a few things here and there, things that I'm not particularly proud of. I burned down some key storefronts and barbed wire fences, I took out a military fix in the barren wild of northern Canada, I drove 80 mph in a 20 mph zone.  
  
Like I said, it doesn't haunt my every waking moment.  
  
And anyways, what I've discovered is that sometimes, it isn't what you did do that haunts you, but what you didn't. And sometimes, just sometimes, it isn't where you were that burns at your heart in the depths of the night, when you're huddled in your bed under a tear soaked little quilt, hoping and praying that no one can see you in this your darkest hour. . . Sometimes it's where you weren't.  
  
I wasn't there when Bobby died.  
  
I'm told it was spectacular. I'm told he went down like the true hero he was, in a blaze of glory, etcetera etcetera.  
  
Rogue said it was some religious sect of mutants that did him in. Some society of mutant crazies that believed they needed to wipe out the ENTIRE population of the earth to usher in the new era, mutants and humans alike. That sort of been there, done that action.  
  
I just wish I could've been there.  
  
I never have been able to piece together the entire story. Professor was up in D.C., Dr. Grey was still finding the Phoenix in herself up at Alkali, Colossus and Logan were working a different angle in the big finale, and Storm was. . . well, brewing up some storm or other. Scott was out cold during the very last showdown, and Rogue. . . Rogue's face still crumples like a wet tissue before she can get the much of the tale beyond her quivering lips.  
  
From what I've gathered, it was big. The battle to end all battles, with fusion bombs and everything. And Bobby, In his stupid, self-sacrificial way, iced the very cores of the Kamikaze Mutant's head quarters, collapsing them all to hell.  
  
He never did make it out, though.  
  
Maybe I could've saved him. Maybe I could've saved them all- that's what Bobby died to do, after all. If I'd been there, I could've burned those sons of bitches to the ground with a smile on my face and a song in my soul. Maybe I would've gotten out, maybe I wouldn't of. Either way, Bobby would be here, and I think that'd be worth the price either way.  
  
That day at Alkali Lake. . . that was it. That was the last time I ever saw Bobby, as I stormed down the ramp of the Blackbird despite his urgings. Two months later, he was dead. Two days after that, I was riding my thumb on the New York interstate, with the Brotherhood-funded clothes on my back and a lump the size of Manhattan in my throat. I got back in time for the funeral.  
  
Well, now I've just remembered. That wasn't the very last time I saw Bobby. . . not exactly. I saw him once more after that day that will live in infamy- it was the night of the funeral.  
  
I dreamed of Bobby, you see. It wasn't as great a dream as Martin Luther King's, but it was something. We sat in his living room, Bobby and I, on that dumbass Victorian era furniture, white with a floral pattern, and even in the DREAM, I knew it was on the lamer side of lame.  
  
Anyways, in the middle of the Saturday Morning cartoons rolling across his television screen, he turned to me, with tears in his splintering voice and heartbreaking pain in his ice blue eyes.  
  
"Was I good, John? Did I matter?"  
  
That lump that had resided in my throat for the past two days rose with a vengeance. "Yeah, Bobby. You were good. You were brave. You mattered."  
  
I woke up crying.  
  
That was three years ago tonight. Not Bobby's death. . . the dream.  
  
I start slightly as I feel a hand on my shoulder, stroking my neck, resting on my cheek. Rogue. I take her hand in mine and kiss the fingertips of her glove, black and satin and very expensive. But I can afford it, with the new job. . . I'm Chief fire marshal of the California Fire Department. (They're a lot more accepting in Cali, believe it or not). That job has paid for her college education, our three story ranch out in the relative suburbs of the state that never sleeps, and her gloves. Never let it be said that I don't keep my women in nice gloves.  
  
"Thinking?"  
  
"Thinking."  
  
"Bobby?"  
  
"Bobby." She's been thinking about him too.  
  
She kneels in front of me, tucking her thin little summer dress beneath her- a vibrant crimson color against the painted white of our veranda. She smells like lilacs, like summer, like love. That's a smell you can't buy for $25 a pop at Macy's. "I miss him too."  
  
"He should've been here."  
  
She thinks about this for a moment, and nods. "I agree. He shouldn't have died."  
  
"No, that's not what I. . ." I pause and turn away from her, towards the sheltering spring-green woodlands of our front lawn, because I'm not really sure what I mean. "He should have been here, on this porch swing, with you kneeling by his feet. He deserved to be here, with you."  
  
"And you don't?"  
  
I shrug, but I know the truth. Of course I don't deserve this. "I just don't get it."  
  
"Get it?"  
  
"How you can love me like that. . . like you did him. He was such a good man, and I'm nowhere near. . . I'll never. . ."  
  
Rogue looks away for a moment, then stands, straightens her skirt, and crosses to the porch swing, sitting by my side with the soft whumph! of the frilly cushion. . . her choice in accessorizing, not mine. "That's true. He was a good man."  
  
"The best."  
  
She nods, the still-white strands of hair that I've come to love like crazy bobbing slightly in the thin-smelling breeze. There's a storm coming, I realize. "Yes. He was the best kind of man. He was a hero. And you're just like him."  
  
I turn my face towards hers, that old familiar lump rising in the depths of my throat. She smiles and brushes my cheek with her lips in a quick, painless kiss. "You're just like him."  
  
Well, how do you like that.  
  
For two months, forever and a day ago, I was certifiably evil. But then something happened.  
  
Bobby died. I came home. I fell in love. And somewhere along the road, I think I may have changed. Or who knows, maybe I changed back? And maybe tonight, when I dream of Bobby, I can tell him.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Corny? I fear it was, but make my day and review anyways?  
  
*bows and scurries off stage at the volley of rotten tomatoes* 


End file.
